The Lost Cause
by Bad Luck Bree
Summary: The Rohirrim said they left none alive. They were wrong. And they missed one band of Uruks on their land. One with a special mission from Saruman. One involving ten young girls from Rohan. They were soon to be the lost cause. Based off book AND movie.
1. Prologue

Prologue

_One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…_

The sun rose blood red that day.

_One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…_

He continued running, his iron shod shoes hitting the mixture of half baked mud and shriveled grass with a rhythmic motion. All the better to keep count.

_One, two, breathe…_

Of course, his counting was a bit irregular due to the limp he was sporting. A sizeable portion of his thigh was missing after he had hurriedly removed an arrow using only his dagger whilst running from another horse archer. That combined with the stab wound through his side was enough to slow him down considerably. But it did not stop him. He kept running, kept counting…

_One, two, breathe…_

He knew he was finished, didn't even know why he bothered running. He was alone, wounded, exhausted, in enemy territory…and most of all, lost. When he had first started running, he assumed he was headed in a northwesterly direction. But he had been disoriented and was being pursued by a mounted archer. He could have changed direction at any time.

_One, two, breathe_…

Each breath caused him pain, his chest heaving against the heavy armor he wore. His legs continued to move, almost mechanically, in a relentless stride that never slackened in pace. His pace might have been slower than usual, but considering he was sorely wounded, he seemed to be straining himself past the limit.

_One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…_

But Uruk-hai know no limits. They were not created with limits. They were not created for the purpose of ever encountering limits. They were created and trained for one thing. To kill.

But now it seemed that he was defying all he had been taught and trained to do. He felt the sweat trickling down his back, and felt the sting of a type of shame, something he had never before encountered. His back, bare of all armor, had been turned toward the enemy. The Uruk-hai wore no armor on their backs, because they knew no fear, knew no pain. They would not run from the enemy.

_One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…_

He was running. He had been running for a day and a half. He had never paused to think about what he had done. But now, it wormed into his mind.

He had turned his back on his enemy. He had felt fear, he had felt pain. He had run away.

But as of now, he was really concerned with only one thing…survival.

He concentrated back on the task at hand. It took effort just to breathe. Painful gasps shook him as quivers ran down his legs, making it more difficult to run, but his powerful body, trained to take all types of abuses, continued on. He pressed onward, forcing his legs to move, up and down, in a steady rhythm. Heavy, yes, but still steady and quick.

His silhouette stood against the blood red sunrise, a tall, loping figure, standing upright like a man, but not quite like a man.

He continued, all the while scanning the flatlands. He knew that he was unprotected out in this land and could easily be spotted by the keen-eyed men of Rohan. But he kept running. If only he could get back to Isengard!

_Fool!_ He thought, _Saruman would kill me…_

But it didn't matter. He had set off towards Isengard, and that was where he would go. But he didn't even know if he was headed in the right direction!

He continued to count, continued to run, continued to breathe.

_One, two, breathe, one, two, breathe…_

This pattern continued unceasingly, the figure continuing to run with a loping stride as behind him, against the red orb of the rising sun, a thin, almost indiscernible thread of smoke rose, marking the last resting place of those who hadn't forgotten what they had been made for.


	2. West and a Little North

Chapter One

West and a Little North

"C'mon, ye lazy clods!"

_Crrack!_

The whip's end flicked close to Ghashae's ear. He didn't wince, but obeyed the command, standing up. He had only been sitting for a few minutes. After all, they had just stopped for a quick breather before they took off in the direction of Isengard.

Ghashae fell in with the others, picking a pocket on the edge of the group, where he could easily keep pace with them. He gave a quick scan of the area as they moved along, noting that the flatlands were slowly evolving into rocky hills. Good. Soon they would pass the forest and be clear on their way to Isengard.

Kúrgzlag, the commander of the Uruk-hai band, was out in front, still with his whip wound about his thick waist. He always had it ready in case it was ever needed. While his followers obeyed him without question, he enjoyed laying about them all. His cruel nature and high ranking entitled him to a bit of sadistic fun.

Ghashae fell in beside his fellow Uruk, a heavyset Orc by the name of Gaborg. The two had become slightly acquainted, but were not friends. Uruk-hai don't have any friends, even among their own kind. But they do have comrades in arms.

"Any clue on when we reach Isengard?"

Gaborg shook his huge, misshapen head, speaking in a breathless voice, "No…but I reckon it'd be another day or so."

Ghashae nodded, feeling slightly relieved. It would be better once they arrived in Isengard. No more running, and no more threat of the horsemen. They hadn't run across many in the small village they had raided, but it was always a danger. But they were almost out of the horse country for good, and Ghashae would be glad to see the end of it.

Ghashae heard a whip crack behind them, followed by a shrill yelp. He smiled cruelly. Probably Boldûr belaboring one of the prisoners. Pity he couldn't watch. He liked to see the captives tormented. Sometimes he even participated.

Gaborg looked over his shoulder, laughing maliciously, "Ha, Boldûr givin' those captives what for? I allus liked 'im, ye know…

Ghashae smirked, "Aye, but it don't take much t' make a female mortal squeal. Just lookin' at one'll make 'em break down in tears. It's good sport."

"I thought they were s'posed t' be the bravest, strongest horse girls. Isn't that what Saruman wanted?"

"Kúrgzlag found what 'e could. All these horse people are strong fighters…though they don't stand a chance against us," Ghashae said, still keeping up the good pace. He was able to speak normally whilst running. Uruk-hai are hardy warriors, and they rarely feel fatigued.

Gaborg grinned cruelly, "Ye're right…silly o' me to ask a question like that. Who wouldn't be afraid of us, anyway?" His harsh voice was filled with almost a haughty air of superiority. They were one of the strongest races in Middle-Earth, even if they weren't very numerous. But they had incredible durability and fought with the strength of ten members from the race of Men.

That was why it was so easy to take ten Rohan maidens captive.

Behind in the group, near the end but not quite, was a clump of quite different creatures. If you had been watching the Uruk-hai band from the mounds above, you would have seen what you would expect from Uruks; broad backs, misshapen heads with shaggy black hair that fell in disarray over broad, armored shoulders. But near the rear you would have seen a contrast.

You would have seen an assortment of blonde and light, honey brown. Long braids and fair locks, almost hidden by the taller heads of the Uruks. And these heads of hair belonged to fairer faces.

Ten young maidens from Rohan were lashed together at the neck, herded close together and connected by short lengths of rope. The bonds were cruelly tight and movement was hard, but they had to keep up the pace set by the Uruks. It took a good amount of communication between them, keeping their movements even so as not to cause one of the maidens to fall and be dragged.

They spoke, when they had the breath, in their own tongue, a language unknown to the Uruks. Their tones were filled with despair, and they all looked as though they had survived some great tragedy, which was true. Their village, a small settlement near the Gap of Rohan, had been attacked by the band of Uruks. All the fighting men were away, called by Éomer, Third Marshall of the Mark. Who could defend them when their fighters were away?

True, the women of Rohan are hardy and capable of combat, but the Uruk-hai were enough to slaughter a band of horsemen. The women and children stood no chance.

The ten young maids were each bearing signs of the horror they had lived through. Each was covered with grime and blood, blackened by smoke from destructive fires. And now…exhausted, hungry and frightened, they were forced to run, tethered together, like a herd of horses.

Boldûr was keeping them moving, licking their heels every now and then with his bull whip, reveling in the torture he was inflicting on them.

The ten maidens bunched tightly together, all clasping one another's arms and trying to make it easier on themselves to run together. One of the girls, probably nineteen years of age, was the tallest of them all, with long hair the color of pale sunlight, her skin white and fair, but her eyes shock blue like ice, fringed with gray. She seemed to be the strongest of the group, as well as the oldest. She was near the front of the tightly packed group with two younger, smaller girls either side of her. She stood between them, tall and straight, like a young tree between two saplings. She had either arm around the two younger girls' waists, supporting them against her and lending them the strength of her arm as they ran. Her face was set in a grim expression, though her fatigue showed through her mask of stoicism. Scars crisscrossed her cheeks, and blood dripped unceasingly down her breast from a hideous gash across her shoulders.

Boldûr liked to aim most of his blows at this particular maiden. She seldom cried out, but often took most of the blows that were aimed at her fellow captives, shielding the younger maidens' bodies with her own.

No halt was called for a good six hours. Some of the Uruk-hai were grumbling, wanting to take a short halt. The Rohan captives were all flagging, their faces ashen and strained with pain. Several of the girls had been wounded in their attempts to flee or fight, and the strain put on them from running was taking its toll.

Finally, one of the Rohan girls fell heavily, her legs giving out underneath her. She brought the two nearest girls down as well, which brought the whole group of them crashing down, causing turmoil and confusion. Several Uruk-hai who were not quick enough stumbled over them, crashing on top and causing damage to the captives and one another.

Kúrgzlag made his way back to the pile of writhing bodies, snarling out, "Get off those prisoners, maggots! The master wants 'em alive an' whole, not crushed! Get yer sorry bulks off!"

The fallen Uruk-hai managed to remove themselves from the tangle of armored limbs, and the Rohan maidens were left on the ground. None of them attempted to rise, all too exhausted and welcoming a chance to get a rest, no matter how uncomfortable.

Kúrgzlag sneered down at the captives, scorn in his voice as he snarled down at them, "You horse people are a weak race. Can't run without the help of your precious animals?"

The tall maiden, the one in the front, had managed to roll over onto her back, unable to sit up because of her neck rope. But she propped herself up onto her elbows and looked up at Kúrgzlag, her eyes narrowed. Kúrgzlag met her gaze steadily, undaunted by her cold eyes. But she didn't look away either, unafraid of him.

"Get up, _snaga_," Kúrgzlag growled, prodding the girl's blood-soaked breast with his whip handle, injecting a cruel use of his hideous language into his command. He didn't know the speech of the horse people, so he spoke in the Common Tongue.

The girl glared back up at him, speaking back to him in the Common Tongue, "If I could move freely, it would be easier to run. At least give us longer ropes. We can't manage with leads this short!"

Kúrgzlag laughed savagely, grabbing her by the front of her doublet and hauling her up. Her head was angled back sharply, and the girl closely bound to her had to scramble up quickly, pulling those closer to her up as well. Soon the entire company was on their feet again, but the one who had collapsed was leaning against one of the older girls, breathing heavily, her eyes shut as blood dripped down the side of her temple.

Kúrgzlag cracked his whip again, "Right, now move, all of ye! We don't stop until nightfall!"

The company jolted off again. When the wounded girl refused to move, she was cut loose from the others and slung across the shoulders of one of the Uruks, carried like a limp sack. The rest were then free to move at the same pace as the Uruk-hai.

All the while, the tall maid in the front continued to support the two younger girls, her limbs staying strong, though she felt her entire body on fire from fatigue. Her eyesight was leaving her from loss of blood, and her sweat mingled with the grime in her open wound, causing it to sting and smart. But she didn't speak, but continued running. Always running.

Nightfall at last.

The Uruk-hai stopped in the shelter of a rocky hill, and the ten captives all flung themselves gratefully onto the ground. Three of them had been cut loose and carried due to blood loss. Now they were laid out beside the others and tied securely once again.

Ghashae sat nearby, watching the captives. Boldûr sat beside him. He gestured to the one who had fallen earlier in the day, "That'un…think it'll live?"

Ghashae shrugged, "Who knows? An' who cares?"

Kúrgzlag's growl was heard behind them, "The Master cares, that's who." He was carrying a skin of a foul liquor the Uruks drank. He tossed it to Boldûr, "Give that to th' wounded ones."

Boldûr obeyed, going to the girls that were lying unmoving on the ground. He took the youngest one, forcing her mouth open and pouring the rank liquid down her throat. She gagged, retching up the odious drink, but Boldûr continued to force it down until she swallowed it.

The tall girl tried to struggle up, crying out, "Leave her alone! Don't-"

She was seized in a vice like grip. Ghashae slapped her hard across the cheek, and she sucked in her breath as his mailed fist drew blood. The Uruk snarled down at her, "Leave th' wounded to us, horse girl. We need you all alive. If we didn't, we would've killed ye long since."

The girl glared up at him balefully, "I don't doubt it, maggot."

Ghashae laughed mirthlessly, thrusting the girl back.

Kúrgzlag now called out to the whole company, "Now eat sparingly from yer vittles an' get a few hours sleep. We'll post sentries. Oi, Brídurz, get yerself over here…you too, Yamag."

The group of captives huddled together, seeking comfort in the closeness of their fellow prisoners. Boldûr gave them each a strip of some sort of meat. The captives began tearing at the food, hungrily wolfing it down without any regard to the fact that it was raw and surely belonged to something vile.

When they had eaten the meager fare, the captives all curled up in as comfortable a position as their chains would allow and slept, some going to sleep immediately, some lingering in a type of half-sleep, and some unable to relax, even in their state of absolute exhaustion. The tall, pale-haired girl was one of the number to stay alert, her eyes closed only to slits and her palms pressed flat to the ground, as if she was ready to spring upwards at any moment. But at last, even she was overcome by her weariness, and slipped into the realms of fevered dreams, plagued by the shadow of reality.

When the moon was halfway through her journey across the heavens, the sentries spotted a figure running towards them. Yamag was armed with a short Uruk bow, and pulled back an arrow. But Brídurz put out his hand to stop him, "Don't shoot! It's one of our own! Can't ye smell it?"

Yamag lowered his bow, and the two sentries waited for the runner to reach them. When he did, the Uruk threw himself down at their feet, gasping for breath.

Brídurz knelt next to the fallen Uruk, his hand coming in contact with blood. He lifted the runner's head roughly, slapping him into consciousness, "Oi…what were ye doin', so far behind?"

But when the Uruk looked up at him fully, he recognized him.

"Lugdush?"

The Uruk nodded weakly, "Aye, it's me…"

Yamag knelt down now, his voice filled with surprise, "But ye were sent out with Uglúk to catch the Halflings, weren't ye?"

"The horse people…ambush…" Lugdush could only gasp out a few words at a time.

Brídurz spat scornfully, "A few horsemen got th' better of ye? Uglúk was allus a fool."

Lugdush tried to push himself up, but fell back, growling in protest, "It was the lads from Lugbúrz! They caused trouble!"

"Ah, th' little mountain maggots?" Brídurz said in mock pity, "An' they're such a tough band compared to us. Fool. If Uglúk had any brains, he'd 'ave killed 'em all then an' there."

"Y'know, we _tried_ that," Lugdush growled, but his last words were cut off sharply by a coughing fit. Yamag was the sensible one who gave him a swig from his flask.

The sound of Lugdush's raised voice had attracted attention, and some of the Uruk-hai began gathering around, until Kúrgzlag broke it up. He turned to Lugdush, raising an eyebrow, "Ye're th' last o' Uglúk's band? Whatever possessed ye to run?"

Lugdush lowered his head suddenly, heat filling his face. Brídurz snorted in derision, "Aha! A coward! Th' White Hand's got a flaw in th' system!"

Harsh laughter greeted this statement. Lugdush snarled, forgetting the pain from his wounds. Kúrgzlag looked down at the blood staining his side and leg, "Go see Boldûr…'e'll fix ye up. We'll take ye back to Isengard with us, an' ye can make yer report." He turned, throwing a sadistic remark over his shoulder, "We'll see how Saruman handles yer news…an' th' fact that ye ran from a fight."

Lugdush muttered some foul oaths in his own language behind Kúrgzlag's back, pulling himself to his feet and going to find Boldûr, who managed to fix him up with the foul poultice an Uruk uses for any ailment. However, it worked, and Lugdush felt his strength returning with the regular sting of the substance.

Boldûr pointed roughly toward the center of the crowd, "Go an' sleep somewhere over there…an' this time, if there's a raid, stay an' fight." He laughed harshly, pleased with his joke.

Lugdush growled, heading toward the center of the group, still limping slightly. He was exhausted from all the running he had done, and no one had offered him any food. He raided a sleeping Uruk's pack of vittles and wolfed down several strips of raw meat. He then found a space big enough for him to lie down in and gingerly lowered himself to the ground.

Lugdush let out an expansive yawn, turning onto his side. He found himself facing a strange sight. Not three inches from his face was another face, which would have been unrecognizable due to the mud and blood had it not been for the mane of wild blonde hair.

Supporting himself on his shoulder, Lugdush observed this muddied object. He could tell at a glance that it was of the race of Men…but such a thin, bedraggled specimen! Then he realized that it was female, and judging by the hair and the fact that they were just over the border from Rohan, it was a Rohirrim female. He noted the rope tied snugly around the female's neck, and craned his neck upwards. Ten such females lay roped together, all asleep, or unconscious. Some twitched and whimpered feebly, but some simply lay like stones, as if dead. Maybe they were dead…who knew.

Lugdush rolled over onto his side, smirking quietly. More captives of a weaker race. This would be fun.


	3. Eoshe

Chapter II

Éoshë

They did not rise with the sun. They were up and running before the monarch of the skies began his daily journey.

This time, it was the tall girl who was flagging. She was in the back now, bent double in pain, spots of crimson marking the ground she had trodden. Pain made each throbbing footstep unbearable, and dizziness took her each time she stumbled. Tears made white scars in the plaster of blood and mud on her face, and her breath came out in gasps that caused her chest to sting with every effort.

Several Uruks had attempted to cut her loose from the line and sling her across their backs. She was slowing them up, but Boldûr wouldn't allow it. He wanted to see the cursed horse girl suffer. Some of the other prisoners had pleaded with him in the Common Speech to let her have a rest. But no…just a draft of the foul liquid they carried, and the girl would have to run with the rest of them.

The poor girl's legs were stripped of skin, her long tunic skirt ripped from her. The cruel Uruks kicked sandy earth up towards her, stinging her raw legs, and were rewarded with pitiful cries of agony. She had lost the grim tolerance of yesterday. Now she was a cringing mess, her pain causing her to break. And yet she continued to support those weaker than herself, though she barely had enough strength for herself.

Lugdush followed behind the group of horse girls, intrigued by them all, especially the tall one who was flagging at the rear. She was the one he had slept beside. He had never seen Rohan females before. They weren't much different from the men. Fair skinned, fair haired, and all hardy and brave. This one was doing her country proud, even if she was dangerously near death and showing full weakness. But of course, what did he care?

He made his way closer to the group, intent on joining in the fun of tormenting the horse girl. He fell in beside her, grinning wickedly at her as he snarled out, "Tired, are we, white-skin?

The girl turned her hollow eyes on him, and he was pleased to see the dull blue color seeming akin to a fish's eye. But she answered, though her voice was ragged with the dry cruelty of thirst, "Whatever you plan to do with us…your master will still fail. Rohan is strong."

"Spare me th' pretty words, horse girl," Lugdush retorted, totally unfazed by her brave words.

The poor young maid lowered her head, looking as if she was ready to fall dead at the Uruk's feet. Her show of bravado had cost her the rest of her energy. She was too tired to continue on, but she didn't dare show total weakness…but that was all in vain.

As if resorting to some base method of irritating the girl, Lugdush poked her arm with his claw, putting so much pressure that his claw pierced her pale skin. She gave a shuddering sob of pain as blood slid in a crimson ribbon on her arm.

_Why? Why does Manwë ordain this? Why?_

She had always been enamored with the tales of the old world, the tales of the Valar and the creating of the world from the song of Ilúvatar. When she stood upon the moorlands of her home, she could almost hear the divine voice. But now…surrounded by the spawn of evil, Melkor and Ungoliant embodied in lesser forms…the tales were of little comfort.

_Is all hope hidden away with the last light of the Silmarils?_

So it seemed.

Midday. They stopped for a brief rest. The Uruks all began pulling rations from their packs, eating quickly. A bit of meat was thrown to the captives, and they wolfed it down hungrily.

The Rohan maid was facedown on the muddy ground, her back arching every time she drew in a shuddering breath. Some of the Uruk-hai were amusing themselves by pressing their heavily shod feet to her back to deter her breathing. However, Boldûr put a stop to this.

"Oi! Th' White Hand wants those horse girls alive! Ye kill one of 'em, he'll kill ye!"

Lugdush winced at the mention of Saruman. He still avoided even thinking about what would happen to him. Maybe, if he was lucky, Saruman wouldn't be interested in one Uruk who had disobeyed orders. What was one coward to him?

_I'm not a coward. By the White Hand, I'm not!_

He would prove himself! He would redeem his character and his momentary lapse of determined purpose. The next time he was faced with a fight, he wouldn't back away, even if he was up against ten score Rohirrim archers!

"Lugdush, quit starin' at th' horse girls like an 'ungry owl an' get yer vittles down, would ye?"

Lugdush turned his head sharply to see Gaborg slightly behind. He was grinning strangely, raising his hairy brows several times as if to denote some sort of unpleasant innuendo. Lugdush scoffed in disgust, "Aye…an' ye say _I'm_ a flaw in th' system? Maybe ye've developed a taste fer the female meat? Tired o' horse flesh?"

Gaborg laughed roughly, "Hahar, 'twas allus th' sweeter meat, y'know."

Lugdush couldn't help a coarse guffaw at this statement. He saw the fallen horse girl wince in weakened pain. He pointed with a grimy claw, "Lookit 'er…she won't last th' day."

"She'd better," came Brídurz's voice as he joined them, adjusting his sword, "She's th' strongest…or else, she _was_ th' strongest. Not so sure now. Hoho, lookit 'er now!"

The horse girl rolled onto her side, her eyes cracking open to look at the three Uruks. They were clear and moist with tears of pain. She spoke, her voice full of pained tremors, but strong enough to be heard above all the noise.

"You will all die…do you hear me? You will all die for what you have done!"

Brídurz stood up, walking over to the girl and kicking her savagely in the ribs with his iron-shod foot. He laughed cruelly as she cried out in pain, curling into a pitiful ball in an attempt to squelch the throbbing pain.

"Tough talk, horse girl. We'll see how tough ye talk when ye're before Saruman." He still didn't know why Saruman wanted ten Rohirrim girls…no one but the wizard knew. But those were the orders.

Lugdush was fondling the hilt of a dagger thoughtfully as he looked at the girl. Hmm…she had a full mane of pale golden hair. It would make a nice adornment for something…perhaps a standard?

Standing up, he went to the girl's cowering form, kneeling down and roughly grabbing her hair and stretching it taut. The girl screamed, trying to grab at his arms as she was hauled up. She saw the knife bared in preparation, and a wild panic fell over her. Was he planning to slit her throat?

In a mad fit of fear, the girl thrust upward with her legs, the top of her head slamming into Lugdush's chin. He gave a grunt of surprised pain, stumbling back a bit, still holding onto the girl's hair. She swiveled her head around, setting her teeth into his arm. Lugdush tried to shake her off, but she had gotten her teeth in good, and wasn't letting go. No matter how hard Lugdush shook his brawny arm, she hung on grimly. It finally took both Brídurz and Gaborg to get her off, one holding her still as the other pried her jaws open with a dagger blade.

Lugdush stepped back, breathing hard and nursing his arm, glaring death at the girl, who was slumped between the two Uruks, held up only by her arms. She looked up weakly, seeing Lugdush point a heavy finger at her, snarling, "Ye'll pay for that, _snaga_."

The girl's eyes narrowed to two blue slits. She bared her teeth at him, energy surging into her face. She felt suddenly exhilarated by her defiance, and strength flowed into her limbs and voice. She spoke clearly, her voice, almost too deep for a girl, ringing out proudly, "My name is Éoshë."

Lugdush tilted his hideous head, "What?"

"My name is Éoshë, daughter of Éodain. I come from a line of Rohan champions, warriors who would have turned scum like you into crow meat. And be assured, they will triumph against the evil of your master."

Lugdush made a mocking face at her, not at all impressed. Though when he looked to her eyes, he was slightly taken aback. A red tinge had poisoned the blue depths. But he snorted in derision. She was only a young mortal girl. There was nothing to fear from her.

"Nice little speech, _snaga_. But words ain't gonna free ye."

"Maybe not," she answered, still brave, though the Uruks noted that her voice was getting weaker, "But I'll get free, one way or another."

"Th' only freedom ye'll get is death, if ye keep actin' like a stupid-"

Lugdush was pushed back roughly as Kúrgzlag strode through, "Break it up, you. Lugdush, go to th' back o' the group. Ye're just causin' trouble here." He snarled at the Uruk when he was sluggish to obey.

Lugdush muttered a few words in the Common Tongue. He passed a group of the Rohan girls. He turned sideways, making a sudden half-lunge at one. She gave a weak scream and fell to the ground. Lugdush laughed cruelly, continuing on his way.

The other girls, who had been pulled to the ground by the falling body, began shaking the senseless girl. But she wouldn't waken. They tried again, but she wouldn't wake.

"Castillë! Castillë!"

No reply.

A piercing shriek rent the air, and it was joined by the wails of the other horse girls.

Éoshë, still held between the two Uruks, heard their words in her own tongue. She turned her weary head towards them, mouth open in a silent expression of horror and sluggish realization.

Then, she began to struggle madly, energy filling her, energy brought on by grief.

"_You killed her! You brutes! You killed Castillë!"_

Despite her anger, she was too weak to faze the Uruks. They laughed, pushing her about cruelly. Boldûr at last arrived on the scene, his whip out.

"That's enough…you two, hold 'er down. I'll give 'er somethin' to scream about!"

The air was then rent by the crack of the whip and the hoarse screams that followed. Éoshë's efforts to remain stoic were useless. She couldn't hold in her pain anymore. The added grief of the loss of Castillë caused her to lose her control as well.

Lugdush sat watching in satisfaction. Each scream widened the hideous smile on his face. And when they had finished, the girl was left on the ground, curled up into a ball and weeping piteously. She was left there, shuddering with each painful sob, until her cries at last died away from sheer weariness, and she lay there, helpless and defeated, all her bravado gone.

They had almost reached Isengard.

Ten had been sent for.

Nine would arrive.


End file.
